Hotel Chicle.

When I was little, I had a Rubik's Cube. After fruitless hours of trying to solve it the correct way, I peeled off all the little colored stickers and placed them so the cube appeared solved. When I showed it to my mother, she got so excited that I had to tell her the truth before she took me down to NASA or something. After I told her, we all felt a little let down. The moral is that Rubik's Cubes are stupid and unsolvable but other kinds of puzzles are cool, and sometimes traveling is like a puzzle and that's cool too.

I was so happy to leave Mazatlan that it hardly mattered where I was headed. But the fact that it was a puzzle destination was still pretty exciting, at least for me. The goal was the island of Mexcaltitan. The fact that the trip involved more than three types of transportation and more than four stops qualifies it for puzzle status in my mind. First I had to get from my hotel to the bus station. This was easily accomplished, but left me unnaturally sweaty. I could wipe my forehead and the sweat collected in my hand would run down my arm. It was gross. I hate sweating - unless I am naked and in bed with someone.

Anyways...

From Mazatlan, I got a bus ticket to Penas. Luckily I asked the driver how long it would take to get there (four hours) because it turned out later that he had no intention of helping me out by announcing the stop - Ralph Cramden he was not. The bus was hot. It was a large first-class bus and the air conditioner was on, but at such a low level that my sweat never completely dried. It had only a few people on it - all quiet except for three loud American tourists in the middle. This was my first bus trip that involved vendors getting on the bus at every stop and trying to sell things. (Tamales, camarones, tamales, camarones...)

After approximately four hours had gone by and we made another stop, I went to the driver - I was very polite - and said, "Disculpe, donde estomos? Penas?" He replied simply, "Si, Penas", but he gave me such a look of annoyance and incredulity that I was surprised. (Ah yes, of course & this small collection of buildings in the middle of nowhere is so different from the last four. This latest tamale vendor has clearly wrapped his tamales in the distinctive Penan manner. How could I have been so blind?) I was glad to leave that driver behind as the last vestige of Mazatlan. From Penas I was to to take a local bus to Santiago Ixcuintla. The first person I asked about the bus told me there was none and that I should take a taxi. The second told me that I could take a combi. I still wasn't sure what a combi was, although I knew I would have to take one from Santiago. At least people were talking to me.

In Mazatlan, possibly because they were convinced I wouldn't understand anyway, people didn't bother to say too much to me. In Penas, people responded to my questions with rivers of Spanish. I didn't understand all of it, but with so many words to choose from, there was a much greater chance that I'd be able to recognize one here and there. I loved them for giving me the respect of words... it's not their fault I could only understand one in ten of them.

I ended up taking a taxi to Santiago Ixcuintla, and upon arrival discovered that it was too late to move on to the next step, so I'd have to spend the night here. Santiago is interesting - It's small and dusty, but has a feeling of niceness about it - like something out of a dream. There is a square full of hot young guys, as in most Mexican towns, and a market vending great vegetables and fruits, and quite a few stores devoted to selling hip sneakers, but not terribly many hotels or restaurants since it's not particularly a tourist destination. Despite the dusty, backwaterness of the town, the young guys all look like they are on their way to the club. I might have to investigate the homosexual undercurrent while I am here.

The cheap hotel was unspeakable and the nice hotel was expensive. The lady at compromise hotel gave me a deal on her crummiest room. I don't say that in anger, it's just fact. I saw the other rooms and mine was the crummiest - windowless baby blue cubicle with small mildewed bathroom, but hey - I got a deal. Maybe she felt sorry for me because I was so incredibly, disturbingly sweaty. She spent quite a lot of time explaining that I couldn't use the air conditioner unless I paid an additional 30 pesos - now don't that take the rag offen the bush? I figured I'd be fine with the fan. I actually prefer the fan, since it's easier to acclimate to the hot weather outside if I haven't been refrigerated all night. But I didn't count on the micro climate of that windowless room. When I came back from dinner - delicious enchiladas de pollo, quite toothsome - and walked from the cool, comfortable outside air and into that hot, soupy room with cockroaches scattering, there was no choice but to go back downstairs and hand over the 30 pesos. I wanted to fling my forehead sweat onto that woman.

In this room, I found something that I thought was just chance may actually be a trend: chewed wads of gum on the wall above the bed. This is the third time I've encountered it. I can't help but wonder a) why someone staying in a hotel would stick gum on the wall next to their bed and b) why someone owning a hotel would offer the room again without first scraping the gum off. It's something to be documented, I think.

But to be fair, since I didn't make notes on the first two sightings, I will make Santiago Ixcuintla the first official occurrence. Maybe it will be the last. Maybe it really was just chance.

Power Outage.

The fag bar was almost empty. It was that time in the afternoon when everything dragged. Ordered a beer and took a booth to size up the place. Ratty red leather booths, low dark wood ceiling - the long bar had tattered stools and was tended by a hostile looking Chinaman. Four other cabrones littered the joint - I sat motionless, smoking a cigarette, ordered another beer.

Went to the pisser, the head, the looloo and as I did my business a fag sided up to me at the urine trough brandishing his big and nasty. He was one ugly mother fucker - had a nice body - but the face that could sink a thousand ships.

But for the sake of democracy, I accepted his invitation to sit with him and his friend for drinks. His pal wasn´t bad looking. We had animated conversations and the beer flowed in so much I didn´t notice the mickey slipped into my bottle.

I blacked out and do not recall anything from three in the afternoon until midnight when I woke up.

I sat up in my bed - well, Miguel´s bed - I was back in the apartment. What the fuck?, I thought. I look down - I am wearing just a black t-shirt and nothing else. My ass was sore. I looked over to see Miguel lying in the closet eying me with hostility - his face wet with tears. He had thrown down a few blankets and made a makeshift bed. This can´t be good, I thought. I sat on the edge of the bed and gingerly asked what had happened - quite befuddled at this point - and between sobs Miguel let loose a tirade that when he came back from work he found me in bed getting screwed by two ugly guys. There was some yelling some fighting - maybe some bitch slapping - and they left after taking turns on me. Miguel was so distraught, he explained, that he ran to a neighbors house - when he returned, the guys had left and I was zonked out on my stomach, wouldn´t wake up no matter how hard Miguel tried.

Still doesn´t explain why he was hiding in the closet.

Well, after some more sobbing by Miguel - I can´t stand whimpering fags - I got dressed, packed my bag and said adios. When will these fools realise I am not boyfriend material? My life is far too chaotic to hold any type of relationship.

I hailed a taxi into downtown and rented a room in a cheap hotel - Hotel Adelita. I think it is time to leave Mazatlan and continue south...

Kicks.

We stumbled drunk offa our asses into the night from the crowded bar - the night clear and warm. Our raucous laughter echoing. We passed an old cathedral and I fell onto the stone steps caught in drunken laughing jags and I can see we are both feeling it. Miguel stood above me trying to help me up - but instead I reached up the leg of his blue basketball shorts and pulled out his fat, uncut dick and popped it into my mouth - right there on the church steps in the eyes of Baby Jesus! In mid stroke, Miguel yanked his stiffening penis out with a ´gringo burracho´and we continued onto his apartment.

Beachfront Labyrinth

I hooked up with a guy named Miguel Salinas on my first night in Mazatlan. He invited me to crash at his pad for the duration of my stay. However long that may be. I moved in last night. He rented a small studio up in the hills but still close enough walking distance to downtown Mazatlan. It was a small studio with a large king size on the floor and some furniture - television, radio, small kitchen. The bathroom was shared by the other tenants - a biological horror; never can get used to these people wiping thier ass and throwing the paper onto the floor next to the toilet.

Miguel is a cashier at the local Gigante - a supermarket chain here in Mexico. A real sweet guy, we spent the evening and morning screwing and talking. He had to go to work so I went around exploring the town.

Before Miguel left for work, he taught me how to do laundry here. It is so old school it's insane. The rusted washing machine is in the backyard and you have to fill it with water and then drain it and then move the clothes into the spinner and then hang them to dry. It's a long process. but when you hang your white clothes up the sun bleaches them and they look so damn clean which is a plus.

Oh - last night, we went to the huge mall here called the Gran Plaza. It was not cool. Too American and most of the clothes were really crappy but still about 40 bucks American it really didn´t make sense especially considering the minimum wage is 5 bucks American PER DAY. I'm starting to realize why its so difficult for most of the people here to make a living.

Afterwards, we went to the beachfront bar Bora Bora because Miguel made friends with a bartender name Jesus so we got in for free. And I can see why Miguel picked this joint - crowded with American and Canadian exchange students. Gotta love his tastes. But, we drank and had a good time. I met this real cool cat from Japan and we talked about politics. With the Japanese guys invitation - his name was Hiro - we ended up at an apartment rented by some exchange students (all queer.) in the Golden Zone and played dominoes til about 4am. One of the exchange students keeps a set of domimoes in his backpack all the time which I thought was strange, but it definately turned out to be a fun time. We drank tequila and I made these characters my award winning, world famous martinis. Hiro got a little faded and started to put the make on me - Miguel said it was time to split. Silly queers.

But, I'm getting side tracked - I headed downtown. Which way do I go and where the heck am I going? Oh yeah, I want to go downtown. I think it’s thataway.

Walk through a pretty depressed area. Why do all the nieghborhoods here looked bombed out? No fear. This is just the way people live around here. Walk through town towards water. Gotta get my bearings. A little Mexican lady tells me to go thataway, so I walk. Pass by some little fisherman working on their boats. Smile and say, "Hola."

Up ahead I spot some school children so I decide to ask them if I'm headed in the right direction. I whip out my handy map and ask, “Donde aqui?” They speak very little English, but are able to tell me that we I am going in the opposite direction from where I want to go. We all chuckle and I just turn around and go back the other way.

Mazatlan is a tourist town. And a tourist town well past its heyday. It's dirty and crumbling and makes up for this with neither cheapness nor friendliness nor charm of any kind. The beach is covered with plastic bottles and six-pack yokes and the undertow is deadly. And if it were a cartoon town, I would be represented as green dollar bills with feet. I so hate the feeling of being badgered at every moment to ride a taxi or eat in a restaurant or take a tour or fuck some whore. Not to mention getting yelled at because you don't want to stop and chat when you know perfectly well it's going to be a pitch for a tour you don't want.

The locals were not interested in me as individuals. In Mazatlan it's like people resent my pinche presence and are tolerating me only because our gluttonous desires for seafood and beer and taxi rides that are built into the economy. Not to mention that no one seems to understand my Spanish. People have told me that my accent is pretty good, but it's entirely possible those people were just being polite. Still, even if I had the worst accent possible, how badly could I possibly mispronounce the word "taco" as to make it unrecognizable to a waiter in a restaurant in Mexico? Or "Corona".

I decided to take a long walk along the ocean front blvd, Avenue del Mar (or Malecon) - a long promenade along the beach that travels all the way down the coast of Mazatlan. The sidewalk promenade is colorful and curvy. Food vendors are clustered into small areas selling cups of corn, corn on the cob, spicy corn, sweet corn - a lotta corn. Need to cut back on the corn, folks. Craft vendors sold colorful little ceramic boxes, and tons of beaded jewelry. Vendors tiny children were curled up sleeping behind the tables.

I passed the area with vendors, and the promenade winded around a yellow and blue painted military hospital (across the street). The sidewalk got wider, larger areas with statues of War Heroes and tall structures with steps appeared, platforms for cliff divers. Fishing boats were docked in a little cove further along, then just as I was craving a beer and nachos, Palapa restaurants appeared on the beach, selling fresh fish tacos and cold Pacifico beer. I ordered fish tacos and nachos with guacamole. That cold beer and the crashing waves and blue Mexican sky was wonderful.

As the sun set, I noticed lots of cars cruising down the Avenue del Mara and a different world appeared. The city started to get very lively: streets were packed and loud, music was playing out of cars and people were dressed up for the night. A large stage was set up on the other side of the street, and cars started parking alongside the median, waiting for some kind of performance.

As I continued walking, I noticed that I was getting into the heart of the Zona Doradothe resort district of Mazatlan, home to crowded dance clubs, high rise resorts and crowded beaches. Almost as a gateway into this area, sits a huge white castle, Fiesta Land - more of a relic of the future, than one of the past. Inside the castle are a collection of popular dance clubs and high-priced restaurants.

I decided that I was done with my little adventure at this point, my feet were tired and I needed a little siesta. I took a taxi back to the corner of Miguel's apartment to find him asleep. I lay down next to him and watched him sleep for a while. I must of dozed for an hour, cause Miguel woke me up with a kiss on the forehead and asked if I was hungry and we walked to a corner restaurant and I had fried fish with shrimp and a lemonade. Miguel asked if I wanted to go out and I said sure - but first I wanted to cut across the street and pound this out on at a little Internet cafe...

Mazatlan Blues.

After my night in beautiful and quiet La Paz, I took the ferry across the Sea of Cortez to Mazatlan. I meet a Swiss guy on the boat, we talked about Mexico and our past travel experiences. His spanish was much better than mine and he also gave me a few pointers about travelling in Mexico.

The ferry from the mainland is a huge, belching affair with thousands of passengers and hundreds of cars and tractor trailer rigs. The ride is 12 hours long and best spent in a cheap sleeping berth (us$25), especially if you split it four ways. The views from the top deck are astounding, and unlike the paranoid security and insurance minded companies in the US, the ships officers have no problem allowing a number of us passengers into the control room for a look at how the beast was run.

Mazatland is a big, bustling city, lovely to look at from the sea, but not as attractive up close.

Blocks are splashed with the primary colors of the restaurants' and consumer stores' facades, but the dust still rises, the trash still burns, the Chevy trucks, the workers down in the shades and the mothers sprinting across the traffic with young flailing and babies wailing. Cervezas and the guacamole, no matter how diluted with sour cream, still bring in the Mexican culture of memory to the old and young. Culture is life. Life is change. Change is Culture. It is the beauty of the world, no matter how desperate, no matter how congested and overflowing, omnipresent like a McDonald´s baño.

Spitting heat upon pale skin. Dust swirls, thick and ominous like mountainous fog, yet there is little silence and zero solitude unlike the celestial palaces where the clouds' nebulous movements waver. Where a hermit might dwell, there doesn't exist this exhaustion, this thumping surge of sprawling land and sea convergence. It's bright and it´s hot, alighting the nonexistent patterns as people and their many motors crush upon humanity and culture - their culture.

It is their land; their noise and debris, the rising dust - clouds into the eternal heat, the rapturous signals, the stoplights and padding feet across cracked pavement before the next race of exhaust pipes flood the streets. The young boys standing in a 50s truck bed and the workingmen folding leathery hands in deep cooling shadows. Coronas, Pacificos, Dos XX and Sol bottles crushed down dirt side-alleys. Passing fishing ports with ruinous fleets and peeling paints of white, green and orange. And then the abominable. Things and their monsters. They let loose to dilute the beauty of this original style of living and culture. As I sat in the back of the taxi from Mazatlan's marina, heat and the accompanying dust drew into the interior through the open windows that sucked like a famished mule.

A faded CD flashed in my eyes, as Jesus and Mother Mary spun from the driver's rear view mirror. Through the dirty window, I watched my beloved Mexico and its culture, passing high-walled penitentiaries and catching the drafts of burning trash and piles of rubber. I breathed in, deeper than the previous, and as tin and brick turned to unfinished concrete with spikes of rebar, the city-center approached. Burnt paper and smoky chemicals infused into the sea air until the salt purified the wastes. Suddenly, it froze. A culture, historic in its patternless flow of work, family, tradition, rice, beans, corn tortillas and cervezas, with mother dodging traffic as she interlinks her arms throughout her five children, and the federales rolling in their crisp black '06 GMC pickup trucks and Ford Mustangs, fat signs and stripped lands of acres of sweating asphalt surrounded by cheap simplicities of blue and white, and orange and white swallows its environment.

Gorging, the corporations find their way as Mexico expands with the born faces of Wal-Mart and Home Depot. My heart pinged. It skipped a beat. But I drew another inhale, observed the life around, and continued to witness an unburdened Mexico thrive. Dust tickled my nose. I sneezed. It reached my throat. I coughed. How unburdened can a culture remain? I was about to find out.

Pay the taxi and check into a ten dollar a night trap - the Hotel Mariscal. I know these rooms - sagging bed, old, rickity furniture and pink stucco walls. Can´t wait to meet my room mates, the roaches. I unpack, shower, change and slide into the street to dig the city.

I walked that evening on the main Avenue Cameron Sabalo. I passed restaurants of Japanese sushi, American burger joints, tapas of Spain, and I thought of the real Mexican dishes in the pueblos and mountains: the simple rice and beans of Mexico. But this was Mazatlan with its Dairy Queen, the Philly steak sandwiches at The Saloon, as well as Domino's Pizza, Subway and its new acres of blue and white Wal-Mart and orange and white Home Depot.

Centro Historico looked amazing though, with limestone streets and dirty saloons crowded with sailors and dockworkers. A shoeshine boy asked if I wanted a ¨nice girl¨. I looked at the boy and said in English, ¨No, and I don´t want you either.¨

After a dinner of tacos and Sol cerveza, I found the fag joint Bar Vitrolas in Centro Historico near Frias and Flores. Vitrolas is a relatively new bar in a historic old warehouse. It has an ancient vitrola record player in the entrance (hence the bar's name), pleasant high-ceilinged interior, a large video screen on the wall and an Internet terminal in the back. The place was packed with a great mix - my waiter, Gustavo, was very friendly. As I sat against the back wall sucking down a beer, a young skinny twink cought my eye, smiled and asked me to dance and we broke out the rest of the night boogieing down. Miguel, he said his name was. Average height and thin, that shaggy hair and big brown eyes - the boy really had a sweet and warm smile. His two friends were cool, too - buying buckets of frosty beer and shots of tequilla. Miguel and I hit it off pretty well and I told him what my story was - then he gave me the look. You know, the look, Dear Reader. Next I find us piling into the back of a taxi speeding to my hotel. The boy was not shy - we sat in the back seat kissing and groping - the driver muttering pinche maricones.

Burst into the room and clothes are flung off. Miguel puts on some music from my portable clock radio and - laughing - gives me an obscene lap dance as I sat on the edge of the bed frozen in vibrating lust. Sliding down between my legs he sucked my erection like a champ. Picking him up, I lay Miguel down on the bed pulling his legs up over my shoulders - spitting onto my cock I slide up into him (He hisses through white teeth.) and screw him with so much pent up frustrations. The bed banged and boinked, bodies sweating under that big orange moon and the swaying palms as we both cried out in orgasm. Afterwards, we lay next to each other sharing a cigarette. Miguel asked if I was staying in Mazatlan for a while, why don´t I crash at his pad.

Sure, why not. Wouldn´t you?

And I Start South...

A ticket is bought and a bus boarded and I head south into the baja peninsula of Mexico.

With a black fart and grinding of gears, I leave behind the cultural clash world of filthy Tijuana and head further south into the real Baja California. Stopping off in Enseñada, and Guerrero Negro along the way. Both quaint little beach towns - nothing special, just typical coastal villages - like Rosarito. Crowded with tourists and old folks and locals selling curious from roadside stands. I stare at the vast desert scenery, which is covered with the huge cacti - they really are an amazing sight. I strike up a conversation with a young Mexican sitting across from me - Alfredo; skinny with glasses and a little moustache - wonderful smile and great personality. He relates that he is going down to Cabo San Lucas to work for his cousin - we while away the time talking of things, eating chips and sipping sangria. After a very long bus journey, I finally arrive to my destination, Santa Rosalia.

Santa Rosalia is an unusual small desert town, built out of wood by a French company who operated a copper mine nearby. The beautiful French-style buildings have been re-modeled, the streets are paved and clean and the town boasts gardens and parks. Touring the town you feel the sensation of being in another space and time. You can see wooden houses with balconies and porches, the Municipal Palace, the French Hotel Frances, the Mahatma Gandhi Public Library , the Municipal DIF, the Morelos Garden where you can find one of the locomotives shipped over from Europe in 1886, as well as the ruins of the old smelting foundry. The architecture is French influenced - I half expected to see the locals wearing berets and white and black stripped shirts and the town even has a patisserie selling great baguettes. Alfredo and I eat - he never having a baguette before.

I continue on, stopping at the pleasant town of Loreto - palm shacks and Indian adobe and stucco, yellows blues, and reds, the population are quite the friendly folk - I buy a silver bracelet before finally arriving in La Paz. A nice but as yet, not touristy town in the south of Baja California. Spanish style hotels rest on the white beach under that harsh Mexican blue sky.

Alfredo invites me so I decide to head to the popular resort town of Cabo St Lucas with him, where I am sure to find some lively bars to celebrate in style - and with a guide, yet.

The first thing I saw was the famous Arch made by the rocks with a little beach in the middle (later found out one side is lovers beach, and the other divorce beach...didn't find the nude nor gay one.) and about twenty sport fishing boats, all leaving for the day. The water traffic is absolutely hectic around here, there are jet skis, kayaks, sport fishing, yachts all coming and going from the marina. A popular destination so it's a real party town created for tourists, so much so that at the edge of town there's just desert. I gave myself two days so had plenty of opportunity to join the party, went to Cabo Wabo, El Squidro, Zoo Bar - it has to be the smallest bar in the world (There are only 4 bar stools!) My memory gets a bit hazy after that - mojitos - mojitos - mojitos!!

Nikki Beach (where Alfredo was to be employed.) is a very chic resort, there are about 8 of them in the world; in places like St. Topez and St. Barths and when we were there they had a DJ and a band and also a playboy party - Alfredo liked that, checking out the Playboy Bunnies as I eyed all the guys in swim trunks. The indigenous population is well toned and treat you very well. Alfredo took his shirt off to go swimming and damn! I am a sucker for a six pack on a brown stomach! Had the best day, drinking mojitos in the sun and dancing on the catwalk with the locals.

Said goodbye to Alfredo - to remember him, he gave me his white conch necklace and I gave him my silver ring an Indian made for me in Tucson - and took a taxi back to La Paz. I rented a bungalow at the Hacienda del Sol - sat at the marina eyeing the boats lazily adrift as the Sea of Cortez smashed against the rocks - a peacful and beautiful mood flows over you. Ate some good fish tacos, wrote and planned for the continuation of my trip.

Next, I need to find a boat, to take me over to the main land and onward to Mazatlan!!

Time to Hit the Road.

I have squandered this year - living in a state of paranoid numbness. All for the sake of love. A love that has dissolved into hate and loathing - like it always does, anyhow. Well, Dear Reader, you know me - I won´t sit flat on my rusty dusty, nope not me. I stay crunchy in milk!

So, armed with the $3200 I have accumulated I have decided it is time for an adventure and by means I best know how - ROAD TRIP! I will take a vacation - the way I have fantasized for many a moon - I will travel down through Mexico and experience this country I have lived only on the fringes for all these years.

No time limit. No restrictions. No plan. Only the goal to reach Mexico´s southernmost state of Chiapas and then - who knows? Perhaps I will continue south. I hear the Amazon is nice this time of year.

I have received my passport and I will acquire whatever tourist visas I will need - ready or not Mexico - there is a desolation angel coming!

The Rounds.

I cut into the cafe Norteno and there is Salvador huddled in someone else's overcoat looking like a 1910 banker with paresis, and Old Jesus, shabby and inconspicuous, dunking pound cake with dirty fingers, shiny over the dirt.

I had some centro customers that Jesus took care of - and he knew a few old relics from hop smoking times, spectral janitors, grey as ashes, phantoms sweeping out dusty halls with a slow old man's hand, coughing and spitting in the junk-sick dawn, retired asthmatic bookies in crumbling hotels, stoic Chinese waiters never show sickness. Jesus sought them out with his old junky walk, patient and cautious and slow, dropped into their bloodless hands a few hours of warmth.

I made the round with him once for kicks. You know how old people lose all shame about eating and it makes you puke to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They gibber and squeal at the sight of it. The spit hangs off their chin, and their stomach rumbles and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook up, dissolving the bodies descent skin, you expect any moment a great blob of protoplasm will flop right out and surround the junk. Really disgusts you to see it.

"Well, I will be like that one day," I thought philosophically. "Isn't life weird?"

Walk the Main Line.

In Mexico the gimmick is to find a local junky with a government script whereby they are allowed a certain quantity every month. Our Man was old Ike who had spent his life in the States.

We are getting some cocaine on the Rx at this time. Shoot it in the mainline, son. You can smell it going in, clean and cold in your nose and throat then a rush of pure pleasure right through the brain lighting up those coke connections. Your head shatters in white explosions. Ten minutes later you want another shot - you will walk across town for another shot. But is you can't score for coke you eat, sleep and forget about it.

This is yen of the brain alone, a need without feeling and without body, earthbound ghost need, rancid ectoplasm swept out by an old junky coughing and spitting in the sick morning.

One morning you wake up and take a speed ball and feel bugs under your skin. Federale cops with black moustaches block the doors and lean through the windows snarling their lips back from blue and gold embossed badges. Junkies march through the room humming the funeral song - bear the body of Old Pete - stigmata of needle wounds glow with a soft blue flame. Purposeful schizophrenic detectives sniff at your crotch, goose your ass - "lookin' for it".

It's the coke horrors - sit back and play it cool and shoot in plenty of that free snow...

Drunken Fag.

After work I headed south into the comfort of Mexico. Dragging my ass through the Plaza, I stopped in Bar D.F. to give the glad hand to my handsome friend Daniel - who was bar tending the joint. I said 'Howdy' he said 'Hi'.

Ordered a frosty cerveza Sol and sat at the end of the bar as Daniel carried on a conversation with a doctor friend - tall thin mustachioed character and rocking queer. So queer he rocked you. There were three other hombres at the bar; all working class.

I sat gulping my beer when I heard the distinct hissing lisp of a fag asking me were I live. Turned to my right and looked into the old fags dead, cold, undersea eyes - eyes without a trace of warmth or lust or hate - at once cold and intense, impersonal and predatory.

I told him I live in Tijuana and the thin reptilian fag cooed, "Soy encanto San Diego." (I love San Diego.)

I croaked something to the effect of agreement and lit a cigarette. "Do you have a girlfriend? Mexican or American? Do you live alone or with her?" Fuck! What's with all the questions?! Who was this guy - a Mexican Buddha? I thought but mechanically agreed to all of his questions.

He finally hissed, "I love to suck American cock." Leering at me with those bloodshot eyes.

"That is very obvious." I snapped and resounding laughter from the others in the bar. Yup, I can still work a room.

"Am I bothering you?" The fag asked putting down the hurt little boy routine.

"Indeed you are." I said icily, finishing my beer and made a dramatic exit.

On the corner outside, hot cholo pelon asks for the time and I flash over his body with eyes filled with mangled lust. As we walk briskly together down Avenida Secunda - he goes down the list to try to sell me Ray bans - jeans - drugs. But before I pop the question on how much for the dick - a paddy wagon screeches up and before I know it I am spread eagle and being goosed by two hoggish cops.

Only this time the rotten fuzz was really pressing on where did I keep my car and my money. After checking my person it came to my attention that these assholes where on the hunt for cash. The shorter fat cop looked at me and sneered, "Why don't you have any money, gringo? Where is it? What are you - un gabacho pobre?"

"Yes I am." I stated humbly retrieving my property off the hood of their truck and placing them back in my pockets. After grumbling together the cops shooed me on my way - leaving the cholo to them - I thought, That is what I have become - a gabacho pobre.

Croaker.

Came to where I knew a druggist. I haven't been there in five years but he looks at up and makes me with one quick look and just nods and says: "Wait over at the counter..."

So I sit down and drink a cup of coffee and after a while he comes and sits beside me and says, "What do you want?"

"A quart of PG and a hundred nembies."

He nods. "Come back in a half an hour."

So when I come back he hands me a package and says, "That's one hundred and fifteen dollars...be careful."

Shooting PG is a terrible hassle - you have to burn out the alcohol first, then freeze out the camphor and draw the brown liquid off with a dropper - have to shoot it in the vein or you get an abscess, and usually end up with an abscess no matter where you shoot it. Best deal is drink it with goof balls - So I pour it in a Pernod bottle and start for Boy's Town past iridescent pools and orange gas flares and garbage heaps, hobos crawling around in broken bottles and tin cans, neon arabesques of motels, marooned pimps scream obscenities at passing cars from islands of rubbish...

Tijuana is a dead museum.

Pod.

On the trolley to TJ and a tourist wants to come on hip - Talks about "pod", and smokes it now and then, and keeps some around to offer the fast Hollywood types.

"Thanks, kid," I say, "I can see you're one of our own." His face lights up like a pinball machine, with stupid pink affect. "Grassed on me he did," I say morosely. (Note: Grass is British thief slang for inform.) I drew closer and laid my dirty junky fingers on his Perry Ellis all cotton sleeve. "And us blood brothers in the same dirty needle." I can tell you in confidence that he is due for a hot shot." (Note: This is a cap of poison junk sold to addict for liquidation purposes. Often given to informers. Usually the hot shot is stryctnine since it tastes and looks like junk.)

"Ever see a hot shot, kid? I saw the Gimp catch one on Coahilla Avenue. We rigged his room with a one way whorehouse mirror and charged a sawski to watch it. He never got the needle out of his arm. They don't if the shot is right. That's the way they find them, dropper full of clotted blood hanging out of a blue arm. The look in his eyes when it hit - kid, it was tasty...

"Recollect when I am travelling with the Vigilante, best Shake Man in the industry. Out in El Paso - we is working the fags in the Plaza. So one night the Vigilante turns up for work in cowboy boots and a black vest with a hunka tin on it and a lariat slung over his shoulder.

"So I say: 'What's with you? You go nuts awready?'

He just looks at me and says, 'Fill your hand stranger' and hauls out an old rusty six shooter and I take off across the Plaza, bullets cutting all around me. And he hangs three fags before the fuzz nail him. I mean the Vigilante earned his moniker..."

And the tourist is thinking: "What a character! Wait till I tell the boys back in Hillcrest about this one." He's a character collector, would stand still for Barat's foriegner act. So I put it on him for a sawski and make a meet to sell some "pod" as he calls it, thinking, 'I'll catnip the jerk.' (Note: Catnip smells like marijuana when it burns. Frequently passed on the incautious or uninstructed.)

"Well," I said, tapping my arm, "Duty calls. As one pedophile said to another, 'May all your troubles be little ones.'"

The Albgebra of Need.

Night cold and clear, Victor and I dodge into all night convenience store under watchful eye of security guard with drooping Pancho Villa moustache and obscene potbelly. I peruse the aisles for deodorant, toothpaste and hear faint gasp from Victor. Admist the feminine hygene and baby laxatives are packages of pristine shiny syringes.

Victor's sounding laughter vibrated through my substance. "I'm holding some sweet heroin back at my room. You buy the needles and we can take a joy bang, brother."

I looked into Victor's eyes, a green universe stirred by black cold currents. "I dunno." I said slowly, "I dunno - I mean, I stopped doing weird shit."

"One shot won't get you hooked, man - c'mon, I just live two blocks away."

Black trash littered sidewalk race under our feet - dodging the venomous Patrols - with our bundles.

Victor touched the door gently, following patterns of painted oak in a slow twist leaving faint, iridescent whorls of slime. His arm went through to the elbow - pulled back an inside bolt and stood aside for me to enter. Heavy, colorless smell of death filled the empty room. A single space with smelly sagging bed, a slutty brown couch, rickety table, dresser missing knobs - adjacent bathroom (the toilet leaked.) and small kitchen. Currents of movement from the two bodies stirred stagnant odor pools; unwashed linens, mildew, dried semen.

Victor reached under the sink and extracted a package in wrapping paper that shredded and fell from his fingers in yellow dust. He laid out a lighter, needle, and a spoon on a table covered in dirty dishes - but no roach antennae felt for the crumbs of darkness.

"Like a firecracker package", I thought looking at the paper of heroin.

"They go off here, baby boy." Victor put a hand to the back of his head. He camped obscenely as he opened the package, a complex arrangement of slots and overlays. The junky fold. "Pure one hundred percent heroin and it's all ours."

Victor was cooking up a shot. "When the roll is called up yonder we'll be there, right?" He said feeling along my vein, erasing goose pimples with a gentle brown finger. He slid the needle in. A red orchid bloomed at the bottom of the syringe. Victor pressed the bulb, watching the solution rush into my vein - sucked by the silent thirst of blood.

Death Fear and Death Weakness hit me, shutting off my breath, stopping my soul. I leaned against a wall that seemed to give slightly. I clicked back into junk focus.

"Jesus!", said I. "Never been hit like that before!" I lit a cigarette and looked around the kitchen, twitching in sugar need. "Aren't you taking off?" I asked.

Victor was jabbing a needle into his borrowed flesh. "Junk is a one-way street. No U-turn. You can't go back no more."

Orale.